


Terror in the Crypt

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: G - White Cortina, Humor, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12438576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Gene, Sam and a Zombie crossover you won’t believe...





	Terror in the Crypt

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Originally written for the LoM Spookathon, Halloween 2008.

“Christ, it’s as cold as an Eskimo Bird’s arse in ‘ere! Good job I brought somethin’ along to warm us up.” Gene delved deep into his coat and produced his hip flask with a flourish.

 

“You do know, Guv, that alcohol actually causes heat loss? It opens the capillaries, blood rushes to the skin and –" An elbow to the ribs put the brakes on Sam’s lecture. He grimaced. “Suit yourself.”

 

“I always do, Sammy-boy, always do.” Gene took a swig of the contents, smacking his lips appreciatively. 

 

Sam rolled his eyes, noting that Gene didn’t offer to share. Not that he would’ve accepted anyway. It was going to be a cold vigil – possibly a long one - and he didn’t fancy hypothermia this early in the proceedings. He tried to snuggle further into his jacket, bitterly regretting his lack of a warm scarf and shivering as the cold stone of the crypt seemed to seep into his bones.

 

 

Earlier That Day...

 

“Tyler! Get your skinny arse out of bed and into gear!”

 

Sam looked blearily at his bedside clock – 4.30 am. What the –

 

“Oi! Hands of yer todger and pay attention!”

 

Sam winced as his head seemed to resonate with each bellowed word. “Have a heart, Guv – you do know what time it is?” 

 

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Tyler - just get yourself ‘ere, pronto. We’ve got another grave robber on the prowl.” The sound of Hunt dropping the handset –deliberately, Sam was sure – made him wince. Reluctantly, he swung his legs out of bed, grimacing as his feet hit the cold floor. Oh for the comforts of 2006 and central heating... and exactly how much had he drunk last night? His stomach turned a violent somersault at the memory and Sam was forced to move rather faster in the direction of the bathroom than he would have chosen.

 

*

 

Sam was met by faces glummer than his own (if that were possible) – even the normally sparkly Annie was subdued.

 

“Last as usual, Tyler – I ought to dock yer pay.” The volume of Gene’s welcome made Sam wince as he sat carefully, nursing a cup of god-awful maxpack coffee and the remnants of his hangover. 

 

“Guv.” Please don’t shout, he wanted to add - but that would be like a red rag to a bull.

 

“Right you lot – our Bodysnatchers ‘ave been at it again.” 

 

There was a concerted groan from everyone in the room. 

 

“Which cemetery?” Sam took another swig of the brown liquid that was supposed to be coffee but tasted like ... well there wasn’t an adequate word for it, he’d long ago decided. 

 

“Gorton Cemetery – Thornwood Avenue. You should know it Tyler, it bein’ off Hyde Road an’ all. That’s three nights on the bloody trot now and I want these bastards caught before they dig up me granny. So its stakeout time, boys and girls.” 

 

The groan must have been audible in the car park. Hunt glowered at them. He opened his mouth to remonstrate but Sam cut him off.

 

“Surely there’s no point starting a stake-out now, Guv? It’ll be daylight in another hour or so. We should do it tonight when we’re all fresh.” Fat chance of that, now, he thought miserably. ‘Fresh’ was a condition he didn’t feel he’d ever see again. At least not this side of 2006.

 

“Aren’t you forgettin’ somethin’, Tyler? They’ve been doing two jobs a night – if we’re sharp about it we can nab ‘em and be ‘ome in time for breakfast.”

 

Sam sighed, trying to ignore the nausea the word ‘breakfast’ caused him, knowing that Gene’s kind of breakfast was not one he wanted to contemplate right now. Gene was right about the crims though. This would be the third such crime in as many nights, and each time two cemeteries had been hit. Either the perpetrators were speedy operators or they worked in two teams.

 

It took another fifteen minutes to decide which team went to which cemetery, issue radios and torches and agree that vehicles would be parked far enough away from each location to avoid alerting their prey. 

 

“And I don’t want anyone coming all over Dorothy and turning their torches on an’ givin’ the bloody game away. Understood?”

 

“Yes, Guv...” came the half-hearted response. Perhaps sensing their mood, for once Gene didn’t insist on a more enthusiastic chorus. 

 

“C’mon Cinderella – time to go to the ball.” Hunt swept out of CID, leaving a miserable Tyler to trail along in his wake. 

 

*

 

Gene and Sam had ended up at Manchester General Cemetery on the Rochdale Road. It wasn’t exactly local but at the speed Hunt drove, it might just as well have been, Sam thought miserably as he suffered the journey in silence. No way was he going to give Gene the satisfaction of admitting that he was badly hung over (again) – it would only lead to the usual insults about ‘nancy boys who can’t hold their beer’ and he really wasn’t in the mood for one of those diatribes this morning. 

 

They had been on what Sam decided must be the most miserable stakeout of his career for just over an hour – this time of year they probably had another hour before the sun was well and truly up and Sam was more convinced than ever that they should have waited for this evening to start the stakeouts. 

 

“I told you we should’ve waited –“ he started to say before Hunt’s leather clad hand cut him off. He raised a hand to pull Gene’s hand away from his mouth indignantly, and then froze as the sound of voices drifted through the open door. 

 

“The Gene Genius strikes again...” Gene whispered in Sam’s ear. “C’mon.” 

 

It was hard to see where they were going in the almost pitch darkness but somehow they managed to climb the steps without incident. As they neared the doorway, the voices became louder. And something else ... music? 

 

Sam listened. That two-beat sounded familiar... “dum dum..... dum dum...” His head spun as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. This was... impossible. It was 1973 – ten years before... he stumbled into Gene who was at the top of the steps and also clearly not believing what he was seeing if his muttered curses were any indication. 

 

“Guv – what?” 

 

Gene turned on the steps, almost sending his DI tumbling back down them. He grabbed Sam’s shoulders, his whole body tense. 

 

“I’m seein’ things, Sam – what the bloody ‘ell is goin’ on?” He sounded as confused and scared as Sam was feeling, and that was something Sam never thought he’d see in a month of Sundays. So it wasn’t one of his own peculiar auditory hallucinations, then – it couldn’t be, not if Gene was experiencing it too. But were they both hearing the same thing?

 

Squaring his shoulders, Sam pulled himself out of Gene’s grip and took the final few steps to the doorway – the sight that met his eyes defied logical explanation. Try as he might, he could not make sense of what he was seeing. Cold and hung over, his mind made the decision for him – with a shuddering gasp, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backwards against Gene.

 

Totally unprepared for Tyler’s sudden collapse, the weight of his DI’s inert body falling against him sent Gene staggering backwards and he lost his footing on the stone stairway. The two of them went down the steps a lot faster than they'd gone up. Groaning, Gene pulled himself up from under Tyler’s dead weight. Fumbling for his torch, he cast the light over his DI’s face – he was out stone bloody cold, a nasty bruise already forming on his forehead where he’d presumably hit the steps on his way down. 

 

“Bloody ‘ell Tyler – what a bloody time to go all Dorothy on me, yer little poofter. And what the bloody 'ell was all that about up there?” 

 

When no reply was forthcoming, Gene swallowed his fear and marched back up the steps, torch on, determined not to give way to his desire to take to his heels. The Gene Genie doesn’t run away, ever. But it was a hard fought battle as he stood in the doorway and watched a troupe of what he could only describe as the un-dead as they performed the weirdest dance routine Gene had ever seen. Led by a black ghoul in a tattered red leather outfit, the troupe danced and stomped and shuffled to a pounding beat, the chorus of which seemed to consist of the word “Thriller....”

 

“It’s close to midnight, and something evil’s lurking in the dark...” 

 

“Cos this is Thriller....” 

 

Gene Hunt shut his eyes and shuddered. He was never going to speak of this to anyone, ever. And if Tyler dared utter one word of it when he came round, Hunt would batter him into unconsciousness again, so help him. 

 

End


End file.
